Life of a Spy
by X4uth0r
Summary: MI6 broke him. *Shattered* him—with a set of rules that Alex learned the hard way—the life of a spy. Series of connected oneshots. Rated T for violence, mild language and brief torture scenes. No slash. "It had been a mission—of course. A success, but... MI6 hadn't come to 'pick him up' (the heads liked to use the word *retrieved*). And he didn't want to remember the rest..."
1. Graves

**This one is a bit short, some will be longer.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider.**

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><p>The eighteen-year-old stood in front of a gravesite.<p>

There were two of them, side by side. A mother and father, leaving an orphaned, three-month-old boy.

Both had tragically died in the bombing of a plane.

Beside it was a single gravestone of a man who had died in a mysterious car accident nearly four years ago.

It was known to so few of the bullet holes found on the scarred car.

In a lonely corner was a single, unmarked grave.

Only one knew who it was for—the world's greatest assassin who had died instead of a certain teenage spy.

A cluster of three stood nearby—representing the remains of a family—a happy set of parents with a young, teenage girl.

What many people did not know was that each member of that happy family died from a single bullet to the head. A painless death to be sure—yet not for the young boy on the sidelines, unable—_helpless_—to do anything, in the arms of three, highly trained assassins—all because the young spy did not have simple, yet vital, information.

Bitter was the grave beside them, the spy's best friend that died at a cost. The cost of a _game_.

But the worst of all was the single grave in the very center.

It had a single word written upon it.

A word the left sorrow, bitterness, tragedy, in despair, _lost_ in the mind of the young boy that had seen her die from a car bomb—useless to do anything, watching behind monitors.

_Jack._

Watching Jack die again and again in his nightmares, Alex Rider, teenage spy, had never gotten over it, and never would.

Alex Rider had given so much—_too_ much. And what had he gotten in return?

_Sorrow._

_Despair._

_Death._

Millions of people who did not know they had been saved from a teenage boy.

He had given his time—skipped way too much school—all... for what?

Getting blackmailed again and again?

The deaths of his parents when he wasn't even a year old? The death of his uncle? His best friend? An assassin? His new family? And his... guardian?

That guardian had been more than a housekeeper, more than a guardian—his soul mate, the woman who had comforted him, been the mother he never had.

Alex had lost _everyone_ that he cared about.

He had given up his childhood—teenage years, and he had begun giving his adult life.

Alex had been blackmailed, forced to complete horrible and painful _(suicide)_ missions—for complete strangers.

He had been shot, sniped, and tortured both physically and mentally.

Alex had given his _soul._

His _sanity._

And it would not take long for it to take his life—spies hardly reached age thirty.

What had he gotten in return for saving millions?

Nothing besides the many scars, being blackmailed and having friends and family dying—being _killed_.

The spy sighed, weary. _Tired_. Memories washed over him.

He knew it wouldn't stop—ever.

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><p>The life of a spy...you have to give more than you get in return.<p> 


	2. Always Accountable

**Thanks to anyone who reviewed, followed, favorited or clicked on this link.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider.**

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><p>The spy frowned, concentrating hard as he grabbed a nearby chair, thrusting it beneath the doorknob.<p>

They would be here any second—already he could hear the screech of the tires as the car skidded to a stop, the harsh opening of doors, along with the light footsteps approaching.

He saw the scared face of Sabina behind him.

The teen pressed his weight against the door, but he knew it wouldn't last long. "Go. _Now._"

She took a fearful step back, eyes wide.

Liz and Edward Pleasure, obviously worried, came into the entryway.

"Alex, what is it?" Liz asked, confused.

"You need to leave, _now_. Go out the back door." He felt weight press against the door—they were trying to break the door down.

Alex heard a few shots go off, shattering the nearby windows.

"Rider, open up the door... we know you're hiding..." A teasing voice taunted him from outside, slightly muffled (hence the door).

Seeing that the Pleasures _still hadn't moved_, he twisted around slightly. "I said to go! Leave, _now_!" The teen felt the door begin to give.

He heard another crack of gunfire, instinctively ducking as the bullets spewed the wood of the door.

The Pleasures were finally backing away to the kitchen, where he knew the backdoor would be an ideal getaway.

"Hurry!" Alex's calls was desperate, now. He felt the crushing weight against the door, heard more smash through the living room windows. How many attackers were there?

Six?

Eight?

All he knew was that he _wouldn't_ be able to hold them off for much longer.

The front door groaned, shuddering against the full force of someone who was _very, very, strong_.

The teen rolled back _(just in time) _as the door gave in, slamming down on the floor, cracking the chair to bits (Liz _wouldn't_ be pleased), allowing entry to four, highly skilled professional, heavily armed _(assassins? Agents? Scorpia?)_ men.

More were coming through the broken windows.

Alex could only hope that the Pleasures had made it out safely.

One swift kick brought down the nearest one, knocking her unconscious.

Except it didn't.

She wasn't there anymore.

Suddenly, he was under a flurry of blows coming seemingly from every direction _(probably was)._

The spy hastily put up defenses, not having enough to go on the offense—_there were too many of them._

He was fighting a losing battle.

It was a doomed failure from the start—and he knew it.

He was weaponless, outnumbered, weak, and sleep-deprived (no thanks to MI6 and his nightmares).

Although he knew he had gotten at least _one_ of them unconscious, the injuries he sustained were far worse.

The odds were definitely against him.

In no time at all, the teen was pinned down, three assassins holding him in place while another cuffed his arms behind his back.

The boy twisted about uselessly, struggling as he was hauled up, still restrained by the arms of three assassins.

The Pleasures were prodded into the living room by gunpoint, none of which were looking very happy.

Ed was clutching a bruise on his forehead, Lix looked like she was in shock, and Sabina was cursing profoundly under her breath.

The leader of the group smiled manically (it seemed like _all_ the bad guys were always insane).

"We've been looking for you, Rider," his eyes took in the rich furnishings. "Didn't think we'd find you in such a nice place. MI6 _has_ been taking care of you."

The spy's muscles tensed at the Intelligence Agency's name.

Leader turned back towards Alex, seeing his taut body. "Or maybe not..."

The teen tried jerking away _(a futile attempt)._ "What do you want?"

"Information," Leader answered smoothly, bringing out a steel knife. "Where-"

The spy flinched back as the cold, razor-sharp metal pressed itself into his skin.

"-is Ian Rider's contact list?"

His breaths hitched as the knife (almost _playfully_) drew along his throat, not yet drawing blood.

"I don't know—Mi6 took all his stuff. I hadn't even had a chance to go through it, yet."

It was the truth—Alex had no clue as to where MI6 kept it, or if they had destroyed it or not.

His smile never wavered as he took the knife away from his neck. "Wrong answer." Leader nodded toward the woman holding a gun to Edward Pleasures' head.

"No! You can't—" The spy desperately thrashed in the arms of the assassins, growling like an animal, (and just as) determined to do anything, _anything_ to save his adoptive father's life. "I swear I have _no idea where it is!_"

A gunshot.

Liz gasped, dropping to the ground where her husband lay, silently shedding tears over her dead love.

Sabina just stood there, frowning as if she wasn't believing what was happening. (She was starting to hyperventilate: sharp breaths, shock, disbelief—)

Alex panted, writhing and fighting unsuccessfully, the death of his _(not-so biological)_ dad _right in front of him_.

Leader raised an eyebrow. "What's it going to be, Rider? You gonna tell us? Or do I need to kill off another member of your family?"

The boy stared hard into Leader's eyes, glaring. Composure was important, he needed to _stay in control_. "I. Don't. _Know._"

Voice; steel, firm, true.

Leader smirked, glad _(like so many others before him)_, to rip apart his (new) family _(further)._ "Have it your way."

Liz was still clinging to her dead husband, wide-eyed, looking like _this shouldn't be happening, this couldn't be happening, why is the happening?!_

_It must've been some... mutual-shared nightmare, when she woke up this would all be a bad dream, everything would be fine—_

Another shot of the gun.

The spy _(seemingly)_ went crazy, fighting against the arms that held down, although he was restrained firmly.

"No," Alex croaked, voice hoarse.

Sabina choked down tears, kneeling beside her dead parents.

"I'm sure you know by now that we're willing to do just about _anything_ for what we want, Rider," Leaders said casually, as if killing innocents was merely nothing _(it probably wasn't)_. "I suggest you start talking."

Alex shook his head. "You want Ian's contact list? Go talk to MI6. I have _no clue_ as to where it is."

Smiling still _(would he ever stop?)_, Leader strode up to Sabina, smoothly pulling out a gun, pointing it directly at her head. "Last chance Rider, or I shoot the girl."

The teen writhed _(in a frenzy)_ under the arms of the assassins, though they were doing a good job of keeping him under control. "No! _Don't!_ You can't!"

Voice; panicked, desperate, wild.

The third shot rang out.

His face crumpled, abandoning all composure.

_Pain._

Tears were coming down, now.

In the time span of fifteen minutes, his family was dead.

Gone—like the others before them.

Slumped, _defeated_, his captors got him under control.

"Want to tell us where it is, now?" Leader asked playfully. "Or do we have to drag you down into a dark torture chamber somewhere?"

He tensed. "I told you, I _don't know where it is_," the spy hissed.

Leader grinned. "You might change your mind when—"

A spotlight suddenly shined through the windows, obviously a helicopter that was above (high—couldn't feel the wind from the—) the house.

"MI6! Get on the ground, all of you! We have you surrounded!" A man barked out. "I repeat, get on the ground and put your hands behind your head!"

Leader cursed under his breath. "We gotta get out of here—the side windows."

"Are we taking the boy?" One of the men holding Alex, asked.

Leader shook his head. "He'd just slow us down. We leave him."

The teen was roughly dragged to the banister at the bottom of the stairs (which had miraculously managed to stay intact during the fight), the cuffs attached securely to the bottom rail.

Alex didn't remember much after that—it was merely a fuzzy memory, a blur of events that happened shortly after; the CIA debriefing him on what had happened, a group of MI6 agents escorting him back to England via a cargo plan, promptly skipping a funeral, and then... a bank.

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><p>"I am thoroughly disappointed in you."<p>

"What?! So now it's _my_ fault the Pleasures got killed?" The boy snarled. "If you hadn't sent me on that mission they _never would have been put in any danger!_"

Blunt raised an eyebrow _(what was he even doing back at SO?)_. "I think you will find that we never forced you to complete those missions. In fact, it was of your own free will that you accepted. Although we often offer great benefits when you do them."

_(Benefits like not deporting Jack, not sending him to some orphanage, giving him leave on missions, not taking away his house, making sure that he—)_

Blunt leaned comfortably back in his chair. "It is rather unfortunate you did not save them, especially if you had simply made the _right_ decisions. Making the simple choices such as staying in England, telling them the information that they wanted, obeying _me_ instead of being rebellious and acting foolishly." His eyes hardened. "It was _your_ fault that the Pleasures are dead. The blame is _completely_ on your shoulders. Do you understand, Alex?"

The teen recoiled back from the horrible voice. He was overwhelmed—overwhelmed by the sheer _power_ in which Blunt was speaking. He swallowed, _knowing_ that he should protest, instincts _screaming_ at him that, _no_, he should _not_ bite back the angry reply.

"_Do you understand?" _ Blunt _(not asked. _Blunt never merely _asked_ without any strings attached, he always—) ordered in a commanding tone.

The spy tensed. "_Yes."_

Voice; loathing, hateful, despising.

"What did you say, Alex?" Blunt teasingly asked.

The teen's jaw snapped closed. "Yes, _sir._"

Voice; _(not)_ obeying, _(not)_ submissive.

Rebellious, defiant, that he would fight _forever_ for his freedom.

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><p>Life of a spy is... is <em>tough<em>. It means you _always_ have to be accountable for your actions, even when things go wrong. And things _will_ go wrong.


	3. Mad Hatter

**Thanks for the follows, favorites, and anyone that is reading this right now (or the story itself. That works, too). **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider.**

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><p>So much pain.<p>

All the time.

It never stopped.

There was no end in sight... only death.

Ah, death. It would be a relief (it would come... soon. Hopefully?).

But _no_, of course they wouldn't let him die.

It didn't matter that they clothed him, washed him, fed him, cleaned his wounds, and let his body heal.

It didn't matter, because... because they took him to _That Room_... and there was pain.

He tried to block it out.

He tried to face it with a (fake) smirk, lips twisted in a sardonic grin; sarcastic humor still played upon his expression.

But no, he was still chained up everyday (like an animal—yet treated worse).

He was still broken, with no hope of a better future.

He had long since given up on MI6.

He had nothing left... nothing left to lose.

The torture was physical, but it was mental, too.

From the glaring lights to the pitch black.

The blare of music, to the deafening silence that lasted _way too long._

The burst of people, to being alone.

The drugs they had experiment on... the hallucinations, the nightmares, the flashbacks... the _memories._

Either forgotten, or painfully clear.

He wasn't going mad... no, he had past that quite a while ago.

He was crazy.

It had lasted for too long.

He had lost track of time.

Had it been mere months... or years? A minute or a lifetime?

It was actually rather odd. He felt detached from himself—from his memories. Those happy ones of the vacations with Ian, or perhaps with Jack, laid-back and carefree.

No, they weren't his memories. Someone else's... a part of Alex that MI6 had killed long ago.

Yes, he was definitely insane.

Why wouldn't they kill him? They had already done all they could. He was broken, and dying a slow and painful death.

Wasn't that enough?

So why wouldn't they just _get it over with?_

He had fought.

He had endured.

He no longer had any will to live.

No one was coming.

He couldn't live this life.

He was done.

A prick of the needle, then then... nothing.

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><p>As a spy, you must endure. You have to be a fighter. You have to do things that make you wonder how much longer you can hold on.<p> 


	4. Lucky Stars

**Thanks to anyone who reviewed, followed, favorited or clicked on this link.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider.**

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><p>There was so much heat.<p>

It was _hot._

Not humidity—_thank god_—but dry heat.

It wasn't long before the rest of his senses returned, leaving him blinded in the glaring light; the barest of a brief wind sweeping over him. Outside, obviously. It would also explain the heat.

He was having trouble concentrating—remembering just _what had happened_.

The memories—_his_ memories—came rushing back, hitting him full force.

It had been a mission—of course—the Middle East. It had been a success, but... MI6 hadn't come to 'pick him up' (the heads liked to use the word _retrieved_) from the terrorist camp. Torture had been immediate after his cover was blown, both physical and mental.

_("This formula will make you think years have gone by, that you have long since been tortured, and you are insane."_

_A sharp prick of a needle, than _IT _had started, and months and years had gone by and _**no one** _had come, and _**no one** _cared, and MI6 had left him and there was pain—_**so much** _pain and time had passed and... nothing...)_

He didn't want to remember.

So where _was_ he.

Fingers twitched, feeling the grainy substance beneath him, and the sun on his back... was he still in the _desert_.

_Your mission was in the Middle East_, a voice whispered to him. _Duh_.

Right, so—

Had they just _left_ him? To die?

It _was_ a bit better than being tortured to death, but... _why?_

The terrorist group—Hussein—had been planning an attack in their own country, Bahrain, against several ambassadors that were going to meet the president—a a good, new, modernish president—to begin the new process of healing the country, and Alex had merely sabotaged it... pissing off the Husseins, of course.

So... _why_. _Why_ had they let him live?

_They know the pain of being a spy, doing missions,_ the voice explained. _They're leaving you to MI6. You hate the heads more than you hate doing missions._

Ah, that would explain it.

_And, your chance of survival is pretty low in the _desert, the voice added. _Which is _why _you need to get up _right now.

Right.

Alex slowly stood up, taking in the hot, sweltering weather. The teen winced as the recent stitches on his back pulled—probably shouldn't have tried stretching that far—the bandages that were holding his back together threatening to tear.

It had been a sloppy job—they definitely needed to be changed soon—but he was lucky they did it at all, wanting to keep him alive throughout their 'interrogations.'

He needed to move.

The teen cradled his dislocated shoulder, he really _did _need to relocate it. In the end, it didn't take much—banging it on the ground a couple times before it popped into place.

Then he started walking

It was a decent pace—around the same speed in the BB survival treks—but it wasn't long before the sun took its toll, and there were burns on his bare arms and face.

He kept walking.

Alex knew that the lack of water was making him dehydrated, _knew_ that he was hallucinating and it wouldn't be long before—

He kept walking.

It was becoming a tremendous effort just to put one foot in front of the other, and Alex _knew_ that this time, he really _was_ going crazy.

He kept walking.

Parched mouth, eyes nearly closed, burning back—and not from the sun—empty stomach, feet dragging.

He kept walking.

It didn't matter that he was going in circles, wandering aimlessly through a desert with no hope for survival.

He fell into unconsciousness, welcoming the darkness.

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><p>He woke up in the pitch black.<p>

Breaths quickened.

He was shivering.

The sun was gone.

But it _wasn't_ pitch-black, because there was the moon.

And the stars.

For one moment, it was breathtaking just to see the thousands upon thousands of stars.

He felt better in the darkness, the light was gone, the heat was gone.

But the stars... Ian had taught him about the stars. And constellations.

He would survive.

Alex picked out Orion the Hunter, and started walking.

The cold really was much better than the heat.

He kept walking.

The darkness was much better than the light.

He kept walking.

It had been at least three hours, when the stars and moon began to fade, and the sun returned.

He kept walking.

He knew he was delirious when he saw the red, white and blue colors of the English flag.

Alex laughed, but it came out as a choked, hoarse moan.

His knees buckled from under him, yet still seeing that hallucination of the flag.

It would be nice dying this way, the last thing he would see was something he had once loved, but had grown to hate.

Alex almost smiled, drifting back unconscious, welcoming death.

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><p>"Whoa, it's a kid!"<p>

"Get a medic here—quick!"

"He's severely dehydrated, also suffering from heatstroke."

"_Hell,_ his back, it's... he's—he's been _tortured_."

More curses.

"Heissen. They did this, to a—a _kid_."

Fists clenched.

Hesitation. "Will he live?"

"From what, the torture or left in the desert without food and water?"

A pause.

"Yeah, he'll live. But just barely."

Shake of the head. "Man, he's got the luck of the devil."

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><p>As a spy, you have to keep moving forward—no matter what's in front of you.<p>

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><p><strong>Review, please?<strong>


	5. Nonfatal Alarms

**Whoa. The review count ****_literally_**** just doubled. Yeah, you guys definitely deserve this faster update.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider.**

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><p>Alex jolted awake as he heard the distinct sound of gunshots, but relaxed—albeit only slightly—when he saw the source of the noise.<p>

Smithers had thought it had been some kind of _joke_ when he had set gunshots (that were surprisingly realistic) for a ringtone on the 'special' phone he had given Alex. He had said it would "indefinitely wake him up" and "he would _want_ to answer that dreaded call when it came, if only to stop the gunshots."

Alex _especially_ hadn't been pleased when he had tried resetting the ringtone.

Instead of gunshots, the James Bond theme song had popped on.

The teen grit his teeth as his hand snatched up the cellular device, the movement exerting his already-sore torso, any more would indefinitely tear the stitches binding his back together. And _man_, that recently dislocated shoulder was hurting like _hell_.

He really didn't want to get up today.

His mission had ended, what, _last night?!_ _Late_ last night, Alex added. He had been unconscious when he had been 'retrieved,' and he had woken up at Royal and General; his injuries cleaned, bandaged, and stitched.

After that, he had been debriefed, and then sent home, where he had collapsed into an exhausted sleep for the past twelve hours. The teen _definitely_ hadn't had a decent meal, yet, either.

"_What?_" Alex snapped, allowing every ounce of tiredness and weariness into tho that single word, along with the loathing and hatred he had for Blunt (he hoped the person on the other end got the message).

The woman (secretary, he had to presume) on the other end seemed unperturbed (a bad sign). "Royal and General has requested your presence at 4:30pm to discuss your accounts."

The teen's jaw clenched. "Tell Blunt to _back off_. I need at _least_ another two weeks to recover."

There was a soft click, and the line went dead.

Alex tiredly leaned back on the pillows.

The last time he had refused to come to the 'bank,' Blunt had sent a team of MI6 agents to 'retrieve' him, aka have a full-out _battle_ in his _living room_ (the couch, floor, and ceiling would never be the same. If Jack was still alive, she would've _killed hi_m; Ian wouldn't have been much better) and it wasn't long after that he had found himself tased and cuffed, in Blunt's office.

The boy fell back asleep, dead to the world.

_I need rest._

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><p>Unfortunate, but true: a spy's life requires you to get up earlier than you want to.<p>

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><p><strong>As always, feel free to give me any ideas or suggestions I have a bunch already, but there's always room for more. Thanks to Vivianne95 for those four ideas- I'll be sure to use them, albeit not immediately.<strong>


	6. Fictional Freedom

**The only reason this fanfic is a series of oneshots and not an actual story, is because is has no plot.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider.**

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><p>Alex stormed angrily in the office, as loud as any spy <em>can<em> be. "The _hell?!_ You sent _MI6_ agents to _my_ house to _retrieve_ a _rogue agent?!_"

"If my agents refuse to cooperate and respond to orders, they are dubbed as 'rogue' until further notice," Blunt stated calmly.

"I'm _not_ your agent," he snarled.

"Quiet, Alex."

Alex ignored him. "I got back _yesterday_. I haven't had a decent nights' sleep in two weeks, and a decent _meal_ since before that, and you want to _send me on another mission?!_" He ranted. "I need at _least_ another two weeks to recover."

He didn't see Mrs. Jones pressed as small button that would trigger the silent alarm.

There was a moment of silence before the office flooded with MI6 agents.

Alex may have been able to take down one of the youngest agents, one-on-one, but there were too many, and the operatives were too well trained.

It wasn't long before he was detained.

"Would you like us to put him in a holding cell?" The lead agent asked.

Blunt's eyes never left the boy. "That won't be necessary. I wish to talk to him. You are dismissed."

The head agent nodded, then left with the rest of MI6 agents.

Mrs. Jones popped another peppermint in. The teen looked defeated, slumped over, arms cuffed behind him to the high-back chair. She couldn't help but notice how the angle of his left shoulder twisted awkwardly back, dislocated. A bruise was already forming along his jawline.

He looked tired, weary, shoulders hunched over, head drooping forward. The spy was tense, as if expecting more pain. Heart sinking, Mrs. Jones realized it wasn't much different than the 'interrogations' he had had during his previous mission. He was immobilized, helpless, and at the mercy of a person he hated.

"That was unacceptable," Alan Blunt said harshly. "Understood, Alex?"

"Yes, sir," the broken boy answered quietly.

It was happening more and more often—him being beaten to submission. It was also taking less and less time for Blunt to do it—he didn't make idle threats.

"How is Tom Harris fairing?" Blunt expertly poised it as a question—it was anything but.

Alex's head snapped up at that. "You leave him out of this!" He snarled. "He doesn't have _anything_ to do with this!"

"It really is a shame..." Blunt drawled on. "I heard it was a messy divorce, too many lawsuits involved. The Harris' are significantly poorer, now. Gerald is _trying_ to help out, yet he _is_ busy with college of his own—Italy, actually."

Alex began to hyperventilate, short, panicking breaths of air. "N-no! You-"

Alan Blunt gazed at him with a seemingly bored, uninteresting grey eyes. "It would be terrible if Mr. and Mrs. Harris were fired, their bank accounts wiped clean, credit cards expired and their son, Gerald, expelled and deported... all in one week. Quite coincidental, wouldn't you agree, Alex?"

The teen became a wild animal, fire in his eyes as he writhed desperately in the cuffs and-

The voices washed over him.

"_Quiet, Alex."_

"_Be still."_

"_Sit _down_, Alex."_

And suddenly, he stopped.

"What do you... _want_ with me?" Alex asked stiffly, finally retaining a calm composure once more.

"I'm glad we have come to an agreement."

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><p>You must meet deadlines that are unreasonable and deliver results that are unparalleled.<p>

Desperation has its cost.

Freedom does not exist.

They will use you.

As a spy, you will always be owned by someone. You will always be desperate, and you will never be free.


	7. Game Fighter

**Thanks for the favorites, follows, reviews, etc.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider.**

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><p>Alex gasped as a fist found its way behind his hastily-made defenses.<p>

The man paid for it as the young spy rammed an elbow into the man's skull.

His eyes widened in shock before landing heavily on the floor, out cold.

The boy snuck a glance at the shatterproof two-way mirror that took up the entire wall.

She would be enjoying this—that saying, Adriana Renè, the new psycho that wanted to take over the world. This time, it was a crazy French woman who was going to build up an assassin force made entirely out of kids. She would begin to slowly kill off high-ranking officials and powerful politicians in the Middle East, gaining both power and money.

Alex leaned tiredly against the wall for support, but forced himself to take a defensive stance as the last guard warily approached him, his two comrades on the floor.

The spy barely dodged the fist that came straight for his head, but grit his teeth as it crunched sickeningly into his shoulder.

Twisting about, he managed to get somewhat as he used the man's arm as a ladder—pulling his assailant down as well as giving him support.

A sharp kick to the temple did the job.

The teen quickly glanced at the clock—he had ten seconds to spare.

It was a horribly sick and inhumane game.

After being caught and the all-too familiar villain-cliche speech, Renè hadn't seemed intent on killing him anytime soon. Merely, a test subject for her assassin training that was still in progress.

The spy had been put in a small interrogation-looking room, security cameras, two way mirror, windowless—yet no torturers came to 'interrogate' him, nothing.

Renè had left him for two days.

He waited.

And waited.

The teen was beginning to feel the effects of dehydration, along with hunger—yet he knew his breaking point would not come till around the third day for water.

The clock ticked exactly 1300 when the first man came in.

He started attacking him.

He wasn't the _best_ of fighters—no professional training—and he didn't carry weapons of any kind.

One against one, Alex defeated him somewhat easily, bearing only minor cuts and bruises and a bit out of breath. He was more confused than anything—Renè should have _known_ that he was a better fighter than that, and would've been able to easily take down an inexperienced guard.

She was testing him... but for what?

Thirty seconds.

One man.

Exactly ninety seconds later, the door opened again.

Four men came in, dragged the unconscious body out, re-entered, and locked the door behind them.

The teen warily took a step backwards.

These, he realized, (by their stance—center gravity, high confidence level and—), was no inexperienced guard.

They were professionals.

His head jerked to the side as an invisible loud-speaker blasted into his ears. "Hello, Alex."

Renè.

"These are professional killers. I have given them permission to kill you—you see, you killed one of their friends. I suggest you save your energy—the time is ticking."

_What did she mean by—_

The teen ducked the fist that crashed into the wall where his neck had been, missing him by centimeters.

The spy quickly got into action, instincts screaming at him to _survive_.

Although both sides of the party were unarmed, they _clearly_ had experience with mixed martial arts along with karate or tae kwon do.

They had also been given food and water, and were not sleep-deprived.

They _were_ refreshed, and obviously well-taken care of, training and otherwise.

The fights seemed to go on endlessly.

Alex made the mistake once or twice of not finishing up a fight in less than two minutes—the amount of guards doubled for the next 'sub-round.'

He was beginning to realize that is was some sort of game, and an incredibly cruel and twisted one at that.

The race against the clock, of sorts—the stakes were high, and the odds against him.

There were rules to the game—not finishing in time doubled the attackers, killing a guard added an attacker and shortened the time by a minute (Renè _knew_ that knocking an opponent unconscious was _much_ more difficult than trying _not_ to kill).

He also noticed that every ten sub rounds of fighting, every twenty minutes, weapons changed.

At first it had been martial arts and other unarmed hand-to-hand combat, next had been knifes, and thirdly had been unusual dart guns—gave the sensation of a real bullet without the damage—very painful.

He was dreading what the next round would be.

The teen was utterly exhausted, a knife wound roughly bandaged around his left shoulder—the agony was horrible, and his left arm nearly useless, plus multiple bruises and cuts along his body.

Luckily, the dart guns were almost done—and the pain only lasted per fight, which was a slight relief.

He was dreading what Renè had in store for next—it had almost hit the one-hour mark.

At least the last round of dart guns was over.

Alex was horrified for what came next.

Four kids came in.

Two girls, two boys—no, it wasn't surprising of the gender, there had been plenty of women that had fought in the 'game'—what was revolting were the ages.

They were between eight and twelve.

Younger than him.

They were trained.

They had the same dead look that he had _(too easily)_ learned to cover up—especially while undercover, the same haunted look that had seen too much, that had _lost_ _too much_.

The same mechanical way of moving and talking, automatically—no hints of any true emotion.

Eyes of a killer.

Cold-blooded killer.

They were like _him._

Trained at birth, forced into a world too early, a world they _didn't belong in_.

After doing the usual-dragging out the four unconscious bodies out, they faced him.

Alex cautiously took a step back, palms upward in a peace-gesture.

On _no_ circumstances was he going to fight these kids.

"Don't worry—I'm a friend. I'm like you guys."

He cursed inwardly when he realized they most likely didn't know English (—_yet, _it wouldn't take long for Renè to make sure they were well-versed in multiple languages), and was about to try other languages when they began attacking.

The teen _tried_ to stop himself from hurting them or permanently injuring them—they were _good_, but not as good as _him_. They would definitely be trained assassins in no time, Renè had obviously been working them hard.

Renè must've realized that eight to twelve-year-olds were no match for him.

She abandoned all the rules.

It was no longer four people—over six per sub-round, and not only kids—adults were being added to the mix, along a range of different weapons.

Knives, dart-guns, _real_ guns, mini-stun grenades and even gas.

It was too much.

He couldn't go on, he was _overwhelmed,_ and _past_ the point of exhaustion.

Almost two hours of constant fighting and after two days deprived of food and water... he was losing the fight.

Struggling to gain _some sort of leverage_, he was losing the fight.

Pain shot up his left shoulder as he realized it had been dislocated, and the knife-wound reopened, bleeding sluggishly.

He had his back to the wall, trying to avoid the worst of the blows, suppressed as his defense was falling apart.

His vision was blurring, now—black darkness fuzzing around the edges, he was on the verge of unconsciousness.

The door clicked open, and soldiers began piling in, heavy machine guns ready to go off if necessary—it was the SAS, along with SWAT teams—Britain and the U.S must've joined together temporarily.

His relief sagged as he realized he had survived yet another mission.

Survived with scars.

Endured the pain, and had _kept on fighting_.

* * *

><p>It was never intended to be easy, the life of a spy. You have to continue fighting past the point of exhaustion, even when injured, bloody, and sore.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Feedback is appreciated- positive or negative. <strong>


	8. Reliability, Credibility

**I'm so sorry- I was _planning_ on having this posted, like, a week ago, but I didn't write it fast enough (which is why I'm going to update either on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day- what do you think?). I have to say- thanks for the reviews! Sorry if I haven't replied to you. Replies will now be on my profile. ****Also, Blunt plays a mainish role in this story- more like as the villain, so there are more office/Blunt scenes to come. **

**A quick shout out to Armand and 3326freespirit who inspired the idea for having K-Unit (e pluribus unum), and Vivianne95 for this chapter's lesson.**

**(Slight warning- child pornography is _briefly_ mentioned, but nothing graphic- at all.) **

**I do not own Alex Rider.**

O-o-O-o-O

_As a spy, you rely on no one. You are used, and in turn, you use other people._

O-o-O-o-O

"The mission?"

"A success, sir. A few minor injuries, no casualties," Wolf answered crispy.

Alan Blunt nodded. "Good. And Alex Rider?"

Wolf glanced at Snake. "Our medic looked him over."

Snake nodded. "I did the best I could with the supplies on hand. I highly recommend one week minimum in the hospital, and at least another two weeks of resting."

Blunt studied the medic methodically. "I am sure Alex will be fine; he can take care of himself."

"Of course, sir," Snake answered coolly.

The other three soldiers (it was _awesome_ having Fox temporarily back in the unit for now) exchanged glances. They could tell that Snake was angry- the professional tone mixed with cool countenance- and they knew a clenched jaw when they saw one.

There was a soft knock at the door.

K-Unit watched as a familiar teenager entered.

Alex looked weary for a moment, his face a sickly pale, along with the obvious sag in his shoulders.

Then he saw K-Unit.

He straightened up, suddenly radiating confidence as he pulled on a cocky smile, hands casually swinging by his sides, any traces of the weariness from the earlier fight now gone.

K-Unit blinked. It was the change was so sudden, almost as if he never had been tired.

"K-Unit, Mr. Blunt." Cub nodded to them each in turn.

"Alex, come join us,"

Although Blunt was seemingly welcoming him, Fox could see approval in his eyes- not a familial pride, but the satisfaction of owning and teaching a dog a new trick.

"Are you okay, Cub?" Eagle asked, brow furrowed with worry. "Snake said you would need a hospital."

Cub kept his tone light and carefree. "No need to worry about me- I'll be fine," he reassured them, before sending Blunt a quizzical look.

"On other matters... Alex will need protection for another five days, you can handle it, correct?"

Despite being posed as a question, K-Unit knew that it was a direct order.

"Yes, sir," they chorused.

Blunt looked at the boy. "Alex?"

The teen ducked his head respectively. "Of course, sir," he said quietly.

K-Unit stared. Even at Brecon Beacons, Cub had _hated_ the word 'sir,' and now he was _openly_ being respectful to a man he hardly knew?

Something weird was going on.

"Why only five days?" Snake questioned.

"His parents are coming back to England on Saturday," Alan Blunt explained.

Cub's breaths hitched, and Fox briefly saw a flick of pain in his eyes before it disappeared.

Snake squinted, as if deciding whether or not he was going to accept the answer, but let it go.

"I believe Mrs. Jones has the file you need," Blunt informed them. His eyes snapped to the boy. "Go get it, Alex."

The teen stiffened, and Fox wondered if he was going to refuse the direct order- but he didn't.

Alex visibly relaxed, tugging that strange smile back on. He stood quickly. "Of course, sir," the boy nodded sharply, and made a move to leave.

"Wait, Cub," the older spy ordered softly before glancing back at the powerful man. "That won't be necessary. We can easily get it on our way out."

Alex had stopped right next to the door; although he sent Fox a confused look, his attention was mainly focused on Alan Blunt.

Blunt completely ignored the older spy. "Leave, Alex," he repeated, voice hard.

Cob nodded professionally. "Of course, sir." He sent a reassuring smile to K-Unit. "I'll be right back."

The boy left.

"You are not to ask Alex any questions about MI6, or to tell him anything you know," Blunt commanded. "Alex knows very little about SO- keep it that way. As you understand, his personal data is classified."

"Yes, sir," K-Unit chorused

Wolf hesitated. "Is there anything we should be specifically protecting him from?"

"Alex comes from a rich political family- and thus, there they are political threats," Blunt drawled on. "His father's enemies will most likely specifically hire terrorist organizations or hitmen- they will not do the dirty work themselves." Alan Blunt stared at them. "You are dismissed."

Once outside the office, there was a moment of silence.

"Anyone else finds it odd that Cub knows how to get to Mrs. Jones' office when he's only been here once?" Eagle wondered aloud.

O-o-O-o-O

"What's that?" Alex peered curiously at the device Ben held in his hand.

They had been at the safehouse for less than fifteen minutes; Cub had come back downstairs after claiming a room. Ben smiled softly at the kid. "It's a bug-sweeper- it's protocol to search the room, even a safehouse, before we settle in."

The boy's eyes lit up. "Cool! So it's like, a spy gadget?"

K-Unit exchanged secret smiles. Cub actually sounded like a typical kid- excited at the mere _mention_ of something remotely connected to spies.

Ben nodded, shifting the small box around the room. "Uh-huh," then, "Do you want to try it?"

Alex grinned. "Really? You'll let me?"

Ben chuckled. "OF course- as long as you're careful with it." But he _knew_ Cub was careful- after all, they _had_ trained together at BB.

"Thanks, Ben." Alex carefully took the device, holding it like some ancient relic, before going upstairs. "I'll be right back, I'm going to debug my room!"

Ben mentally reminded himself to double-check Alex's work, just in case.

But there wasn't any need- as the first thing Alex had done was thoroughly search it, already having found two.

The teen sighed, finally dropping the mask as he closed the door behind him.

He had recognized Smithers' work immediately- but even he knew he had to find a way to make _sure_ MI6 hadn't planted any bugs on him.

Cautiously, Alex moved the device across his clothes, frowning when the machine chirped as it crossed his upper-back.

Ah. _There_.

Bingo.

It was a skin-toned patch right under the bandages for his chest. Smithers must've developed it to not trigger any nerves, because he didn't feel a thing when he tore it off. Alex studied it closely- it wasn't a listening device, but a tracker.

He didn't destroy it- he wasn't _that_ stupid.

No, he had other plans.

The spy grinned wolfishly.

It was time for phase two.

O-o-O-o-O

"Why weren't you sent directly to a hospital, Cub?"

The rest of K-Unit froze, the poker chips and cards momentarily forgotten.

Snake _never_ started conversations like this- he only gave small bits of advice and information, or commented here and there- valuable information, yes, but it was factual, short and to the point.

Cub shrugged, easily brushing it off. "A medic looked me over on the way here, he said I was fine."

"Why are you lying to us?" Eagle asked coldly. "You were unconscious while _Snake_ patched you up."

The spy tensed. It had been a stupid mistake- one that would've gotten him killed in the field. He had merely assumed out of eight Units that had taken over Renè's training facilities, it would have been _K-Unit_ of all of people to find him.

"I didn't want you to worry about me," the boy mumbled. "Besides, I hate hospitals."

"If you're _hurt, _ you need to tell someone," Wolf reprimanded. "Understand?"

Cub nodded, inwardly musing. Even if he _was_ hurt, he wouldn't dare tell anyone- he would get in trouble with Blunt if he let too much information slip.

"I still need to check them over- they may need to be cleaned again," Snake told him.

Cub hesitated, but finally relented. "Fine, but just... not alone."

Fox's eyebrows shot up.

Cub was embarrassed, but it had been necessary- ever since the child pornography mission a couple months back, he had made sure he was never in a vulnerable position with adults. Thank god, he hadn't been molested or anything... but _all the kids who _**_had;_** it had been merely luck that it hadn't happened to him. He inwardly shuddered.

"That's fine," Snake said softly. "Eagle, can you get the First Aid?" he directed the question to the soldier, who nodded, immediately leaving the room.

"Now?" Cub asked weakly.

There it was again: the slight hesitation. Cub was definitely hiding something, Fox deducted.

Snake nodded. "Now, Cub," he gestured to the couch, and Cub reluctantly sat on it as Eagle entered the room with the necessary medical supplies.

"Shirt off, Cub," Snake ordered quietly.

The boy stiffened, but grudgingly pulled the t-shirt off.

His torso was smooth, slightly lighter skin, his muscles toned. Oddly enough, the teenager had no body fat.

At _all._

They hadn't realized how _skinny_ he was.

Still, relief flooded into the soldiers- although there were several large bruises from the fight yesterday, along with his other injuries, Cub didn't seem to have any scars or remnants of previous wounds.

Snake sighed, satisfied. "Good, Cub. Your shoulder is healing nicely." _And you_ _don't have any previous injuries we don't know about._

"Yeah, we were, like, afraid you had a bunch of secret scars and stuff," Eagle joked.

Cub strained a smile. "Yeah, 'course not."

Snake continued to work in silence- but it didn't last.

"How much do you weight, Cub?" Fox questioned, knowing if he hadn't asked, another K-Unit member would.

"I dunno... maybe 75 kilograms?"

Snake shook his head. "You definitely don't weigh that much- and you need to be minimum 68."

Cub looked down.

"When was the last time you ate?" Wolf studied their charge carefully.

Cub raised an eyebrow in confusion. "With you guys... dinner, remember?"

"Before that."

Cub's tone was still relaxed. "The plane."

"_Before_ that," Wolf repeated.

"They fed me right before the fighting started," Cub lied smoothly.

"You're lying."

The teen glared at Fox, who was leaning lazily against the wall, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Tell us the truth, Cub," Wolf ordered softly.

Cub closed his eyes, refusing to answer.

K-Unit sobered. They saw Cub's muscles visibly tense. It was like... like he was preparing himself for pain.

They weren't going to force it out of him- but had other people tried to do it before?

It was obvious silence was the only answer they were going to receive- and it was enough. And at least, although Cub wasn't saying anything, he wasn't _lying_ either.

It was _worse_, when Cub opened his eyes, and he was almost... _surprised_.

Snake shook his head, getting back to work. It was when he peered more closely at the kid when everything went wrong.

"These are skin grafts, Cub," Snake said softly. "Why on _earth_ would you have a _skin graft transplant?!_"

K-Unit stared.

Cub froze. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He had been lucky enough, on the mission right before Renè, to have an assignment that had required covering up his scars- some swimming competition. He had been somewhat confident until Snake had realized what there were.

Wolf shook his head. "I don't want to know- nor are we allowed to ask."

K-Unit winced. Right... there was that _little_ warning from the _head_ of MI6 telling them _not_ to ask questions.

Fox narrowed his eyes, suspicious. _What are you hiding, Cub?_

O-o-O-o-O

_As soon as he left Mrs. Jones' office, he opened the folder. It had the usual information- their cover, keys, addresses, etc. But... there was even cash, and some credit cards._

_In the end, he took one of the credit cards, along with 100 pounds' worth of notes._

_K-Unit didn't suspect a thing; after all, it was only an already-rich teenager of a powerful political figure... right?_

O-o-O-o-O

Alex frowned, staring hard at the door.

Even locked, it wouldn't hold off an angry (or worried, he reminded himself) unit for more than a few seconds- he just hoped he would be back before they realized he was gone.

The spy had easily noticed their usual night check-up on him for the past two days- it had been hard, trying to act like a normalish teenager to let down their guard, and try to get them to trust him a little- it could only work to his advantage for what he was planning.

But he only had another three days- and five days total to properly plan out and execute his disappearing act.

For a while he had been ready and waiting for the right opportunity had come- and now here it was, right at his fingertips.

Blunt had recognized the importance of keeping him isolated while not on missions- a few days here, a couple days there- but not properly enough time to form trusting relationships to use- because that's all what they could be now. The relationships themselves were a hindrance- a means to be used against him... unless, of course, he could get something out of it.

He could.

And he _would._

The one mistake on Blunt's part had been thinking Alex _wouldn't _ try taking advantage of this particular situation- perhaps Blunt had thought he would pretend for a short while that he had an actual family; a (_fake)_ family that would worry about him, care for him, even... protect him?

The spy chuckled dakly at the thought.

How gullible.

How _childish_.

Stalking towards the window, the teen cautiously eased the it open.

Alex hesitated- it was too much of a risk to jump; one for the noise, two for his recently-broken-but-kinda-healed-leg. Normally, it wouldn't be a problem- even with the risk involved, but... this was his one chance- and he wasn't going to blow it.

One of the first things he had noticed while studying the exterior of the house, was that the pattern of the bricks slightly jutted out, seemingly for decoration. Although Ian hadn't _quite_ taught him to master climbing a sheer brick wall, the few centimeter handholds were decent, at least until he could jump without the risk of being caught.

Smirking slightly, the teen knew it wasn't over- he still had a task.

Alex set a brisk pace toward the edge of town- even in the dark of the night, there was still the (slim) possibility of cars driving by and seeing a boy run.

He met up with R in the usual alley- the one she used to meet with customers.

Alex had met R on a mission a few months back: she had saved his life by backing up his hastily-made-on-the-spot-cover. All in all, R was a decent woman- especially for a criminal.

It didn't matter how many times they had saved eachother from both death or prison- Alex didn't know her real name, nor she his.

It was perfect.

"I need a favor," Alex began.

R snorted. "It's good to see you, too, Travis." She raised an eyebrow. "Well? What is it this time?"

"A passport- and some fake papers," Alex, or rather, Travis explained. "I'm leaving the country this Friday- I need a fresh start, I was thinking France?"

R shrugged. "Shouldn't be hard to whip up something quick- you'll probably need something more permanent once you get there, but it'll work in a pinch. Besides, anything for an old friend, right?"

Yeah, a couple months meant he was an old friend- he really had been in this business to long.

"Sounds good."

R jerked her head to the door of her workshop. "You coming? It won't take long."

A few hours later, Alex was fifty pounds lighter (courtesy of MI6- oh, the irony) and one new identity richer.

O-o-O-o-O

_"You're a good kid, Cub." Eagle smiled softly. "We trust you- and I hope you trust us. We got your back- we're not going to let you get hurt." _

O-o-O-o-O

"Fox?"

The older spy glanced up from his book. "What is it, Cub?"

Ben studied the teen- he looked almost... _embarrassed_. The blush, the hesitation, the way he was avoiding eye contact, and that he seemed uncomfortable.

Yes, Cub was _embarrassed._

"Well, um... I was wondering if I could Skype my friend?" Cub's eyes were hopeful.

"And you need a laptop for that," Ben supplied.

Cub shuffled his feet. "Yeah..."

The teen froze as Fox began to drum his fingers on the wooden chair.

Ben blinked, abruptly stopping the movement.

Alex relaxed.

Alex... _relaxed_.

Ben realized he was still waiting for an answer. "Of course you can borrow my laptop," he said smoothly, carefully filing away the time for later; he knew the basics of computers, and would be able to track Alex's movements to see if the timestamp matched.

The kid's face broke into a grin. "Thanks, Fox!"

Fox nodded, smiling as he quickly set it up for him, before Cub took the laptop upstairs to his room.

Ben closed his eyes.

Something was _wrong_.

It was like... Cub had been _scared_ when he started rapping his fingers on the chair- it wasn't _that_ bad a habit, just one Ben had developed when he was thinking.

"Maybe you remind him of someone," a voice said quietly.

Fox looked up at the soldier.

Snake had witnessed the entire exchange, seemingly reading his mind as he searched for answers on Cub's weird behavior.

Ben mildly hummed in agreement.

Cub was scared of something, and he was determined to find out _what_... or **_who_.**

O-o-O-o-O

Alex entered his room, his _(fake)_ smile disappearing, along with his confidence level.

The wary and tired look returned, along with the slumped shoulders.

He didn't have much time- by the end of the week, he would either be out of the country on a mission or on the run.

That, and he knew Ben would later check what he had been up to on his laptop.

Wasting no time, the teen quickly accessed his Skype account, setting up the link that would later confirm a 47 minute, 18 second call to someone named Ryan Williams, a rich friend that would easily fit into his cover story as a son of a politician.

As a spy, it was necessary for survival to learn computer and hacking skills- one of the reasons he was still alive.

Luckily, it didn't take long to create and connect several proxies to cover his tracks.

Alex chewed his lip thoughtfully. Now was the hard part.

He accessed the credit card's bank account.

Yes, it had been easy to swipe from the file Jones had given him, but actually _withdrawing_ the money.

The spy sent 15,000 pounds through several different offshore accounts, along with filtering it through a variety of shell companies before it rested, virtually untraceable, into an account MI6 had no knowledge of him owning.

The most difficult part had been creating the fake transaction, making sure the money would not appear missing until he was long gone; although it would only last a few days, it was enough.

And Alex was 15,000 pounds richer.

He only had _one_ more purchase to make...

O-o-O-o-O

_"You know you can always come to us, right?" Wolf put his hands on the teen's slim shoulders. "I__f there's anything you need to tell us- we're here for you. W__e're a unit. A team. You're part that, Cub."_

O-o-O-o-O

Alex was _ready_.

Ready to _run_, ready to _leave_, and ready to_ get his freedom back._

There was only one thing left to do...

It was odd being back- back at his old house.

Ian had always insisted on being ready for anything- which mean having the necessary supplies at the ready.

It had been one drizzly afternoon that nine-year-old Alex had been digging a hole in the backyard- not to bury treasure, but to hide it.

Every year since then, Ian had made sure he had updated it.

True, Alex hadn't 'updated' it in nearly two years, but it would still be sufficient.

It was only a foot deep under, that Alex found the water-tight container containing a First Aid, nonperishable food, a hunting knife, some cash, a change of clothes that were useless, and, Alex smiled grimly, _hair dye_.

O-o-O-o-O

"Damn it! Are you sure?!" The man sounded worried, pacing the floor near Gate 23b, for a plane that would be boarding soon, headed for New York, the U.S. "Fine, I'll be right there." With that, he ended the call.

Bemused, a red-haired boy watched the man, along with several people who were waiting for the same flight.

"Hey, kid," the man nodded to him. "You want my ticket? It's first class, and I have to go."

The redhead blinked in surprise, before grinning. "Sure, thanks mister."

The boy was handed a slip of paper, before the man hurried out.

O-o-O-o-O

Alex Rider smirked, quickly heading toward the restroom.

Five minutes later, he walked out with a new hair color- brown.

It had been too easy to leave small traces of red hair dye in his old house, along with an empty package of red hair dye.

Of course, he had been careful to find a red-headed boy that was going on a flight to New York with the same built as him. Next, it was simple enough to buy a first-class ticket on the same flight, stage a scene in which he was an adult that would miss the flight, and merely make sure he gave the ticket to the said-boy. A bit complex, but the records would show a redheaded teenager by the name of Alex Rider, checking into a flight headed for America, while the _real_ Alex Rider would be on his way to Paris under his new name. The only tidbits of clues were set for MI6 to find, and lead them on a wild goose chase.

It was perfect- as perfect as any plan _could_ be, Ian had always drilled it into him that 'perfect' was merely a word, not a reality.

Staging his death would be ideal, but he didn't have the time or resources for that.

Alex Rider melted into his new identity, and the teenager boarded his one-way trip to France.

O-o-O-o-O

"Cub! Come down and get some breakfast!" Snake yelled from downstairs. "God knows you need it," he muttered under his breath.

"I'll go get him," Fox offered.

A minute later, Ben rushed down, visibly paler than before. "He's gone."

K-Unit sobered.

Wolf swallowed. All the talk about trusting, opening up, Cub had just upped and ran. "Any sign of him?"

Fox shook his head. "No, but there was no struggle- and he could have easily left hours ago. His rucksack is gone as well."

"Fox, try to track him- try to find anything that could lead us to him," Wolf ordered gruffly. "Snake, check the tube and bus stations, along with taxis." He turned to the last member. "Eagle, stay here if he comes back. I'll look on foot."

O-o-O-o-O

They searched for three hours before calling MI6- the amount protocol required.

"It's nothing that hasn't happened before," Mrs. Jones reassured them. "Alex has always been an... _unusual_ boy." She smiled. "It was Alex's choice to run away- and he is used to getting his own way."

K-Unit nodded, but still inwardly rejected the statement- that wasn't the Cub they knew.

"With all due respect, ma'm, it was my responsibility as unit leader, and one that I failed," Wolf said quietly. "For that, I apologize."

"No need," Alan Blunt said dully. "We'll find him."

A ghost of a smile. Then, the chilling words:

"We always do."

O-o-O-o-O

**The first peek at K-Unit... not sure if I reached expectations or not- I know I should've had more Wolf and Eagle in it. Also, it felt rushed- I'll go through a re-write for this oneshot later.**

**So... tell me what you think. Loved it, hated it? I also tried something new- having the lessons at the beginning instead of the end. Yea or nay? **


End file.
